Classical
The Publisher's Prejudice
“To my friends I am known as Mace, to my clients Mr Nase, and to you I am God.” So spoke the elderly publisher with a kind of judicious weight on each syllable, shaking his opposite’s hand, and dressing the furniture in his coat. His entrance had heralded a collective holding of the café’s breath, and only when Mr Nase was seated were the ricochets of quotidian busyness around allowed to reanimate – albeit in his orbit. Although the room was overpopulated with the clanging of spoons on crockery and the timekeeping of invisible footsteps, their shadows were mute; the world outside the little table between these two men was intangible, a cacophony of meaning so multivalent that it seeped into their senses as white noise; but here, there was anticipation, a shared sense of gravity, as if a letter were to slide through the door imminently with the kind of news enclosed that changes a life. It was under this very gravity that the publisher leaned back for a moment and let his hands tesselate on the finely tailored trousers lining his lap. His eyes wandered around the place with a purposeful gait, apparently indifferent to the silent defiance returned by the author opposite him.
By H. R. M. Laventure3 years ago in Fiction
The Day the Sickness Came
It seemed like a regular work day on the day that the sickness came. After work I went to the gym and saw it one of the TVs playing the news. I had my elliptical headphones tuned into something else, but I saw the ticker running across the bottom of another screen. “World Health Organization Declares Coronavirus a Global Pandemic”. There had been some murmurings about this new virus online and at work, but I wasn’t sure it was going to amount to anything. After all, we had prepared for an Ebola virus pandemic that never came. There were team meetings where we laid out what our response would be. We learned how to don and doff hooded masks that we never ended up using. But when this virus came, things seemed different. The first inkling was when masks started disappearing from the supply closet. I thought it was strange, so I stashed some in one of my office drawers for safekeeping. You could feel it in the air that something weird was going on. So, when they announced the pandemic, I knew my Spidey senses had been right. I decided to stop by the grocery store on the way home from the gym. I wanted to stock up on some freezer and canned goods, as well as some dry stuff for the pantry. Surprisingly, the store was pretty empty except for the people stocking the shelves. As I wandered aimlessly down the baking aisle, trying to think about what I would need for a pandemic, my eyes landed on a box of cake mix. It was one that was familiar from my childhood; a red box with a slice of chocolate cake pictured on the front. I reached for the box. I had no idea how long we might have to be in the house. I might want a little slice of comfort for the end times.
By Jarita Hagans3 years ago in Fiction
The Great James Gates
Inspired by the Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. The Great James Gates Most people let life happen to them. Coasting on each gust of wind that pushes them toward their inevitable end. And then, there are those few rare people who happen to life.
By Leah Harris3 years ago in Fiction
A Sense Of Smell
Oh, the sweet pang of pain. Tatvik’s drugged brain failed to feel the intensity of the operating pieces of equipment entering him, but a soft feeling engulfed him completely, his bubbling mind, imagining things, yesteryear memories caressing him by, all his senses, as if exploding and bursting, creating an orchestra of a cacophonic circus of thoughts, and he seemed to get sucked into that realm, slowly, slowly.
By somsubhra banerjee3 years ago in Fiction
Dance of the Bolero
The seductive melody of the Bolero held her captive. She turned up the volume, needing to free herself in the music. She sat in her chair facing the window. The ocean waves lulled her into daydreaming. She longed to run outside and feel the grainy sand between her toes.
By J.M. Troppello3 years ago in Fiction
Fresh Start
She’s a dejected 35 year old woman standing at the front door of an old house, keys in hand. Reminiscing on how she got here, she thinks about all she has lost over the last year. This house is all, she feels, that she has now. 5 years ago her and her husband, ex-husband, she corrects herself, bought this for her father. He was older than most peoples dads and after her mother left to “find herself”, he was retired, lonely, broke and so bored. As a successful real estate agent, this place almost literally landed in her lap and, at the time, was pocket change to her. Her dad had loved it. Not far from a nice little town, beautiful wineries, just enough land to grow food and gardens but not too big for one person to manage. The house had needed a lot of work, but dad loved the challenge of fixing it up. It was a stroke of luck her dad had waited until after the divorce was filed to sign it back to her so she could sell it. It meant that it was now all hers. She did sometimes think he had stalled on purpose, foreseeing the divorce. She didn’t particularly want to live here, but her husband, ex-husband, had a secret gambling problem, so here she is. He also had a boner-in-her-boss problem, which meant she had quit, before knowing just how broke they were. What a piece of shit.
By Melanie Baker 3 years ago in Fiction
Shattered
Jacob stood in the hallway with the telephone handset pressed hard against his ear, nodding his head slightly. The fingers of his left hand tapped against the slick surface of the table next to the receiver, making a semicircle of tiny circles in the dust.
By Michael S Rosin3 years ago in Fiction
Ganhail Reaches for the Unreachable
'Good enough' was NEVER good enough for Ganhail. He had loving parents, friends, and a pretty young woman who was devoted to him. But, he was not a Knight; for he was not the son of a King, Duke, Earl, or Baron. He was the son of lowly peasants. Ganhail knew this system of things was not just. He was determined to right an unrightable wrong; believing the only way for him to change things for the better, was to become a Knight. It was an impossible dream, but somehow, he had to achieve his quest.
By Karla Bowen Herman3 years ago in Fiction